Prologue
“James!”
Millie, as per usual, feeling like a walking corpse, stood at the bottom of the stairs. Monday morning was always an absolute bitch, and this one was like no other. Alex would be out and hopefully on the farm, but she was never certain. And James should be down here with his school bag ready, his breakfast eaten and his uniform on. So far they’d managed breakfast and James was currently in the process of tackling uniform.
“James! Hurry up! The morning shifts begin in fifteen minutes!”
Thankfully, midway through her sentence, James flew down the stairs like those shuttles they flew in the outer sector, and dashed in to the living room. Mille poked her head round the door, to see him bundle a pile of school books in to his arms and dump them in his backpack.
“I’m ready!” he grumbled, sick of her nagging. “Did they find them, by the way?”
“Find who, love?”
“The thief.”
Oh. Alex had been going on non-stop about this bloody thief. ‘He’s taken my farm equipment!’ he would say. ‘The platinum hyperdrive in the tracker, gone!’.
'So, he’s not really taken the equipment?' James would say, in a desperate bid to try and seem smart.
'This is not funny,' his father would reply.
It wasn’t funny, really. The thief began taking saws, shovels, anything he could get his hands on. Pointless, really. Millie, the maths whiz she was, with various different prizes to her name, had to incorporate all of that in to the accounts.
Then they heard the scream. It was someone cursing at the top of their lungs. It was Alex. If there was one thing Millie had learned from ten years of marriage, it was that her husband did not scream unless he was pushed over the edge.
“Wait here,” she ordered James. She left the house, and turned the corner to the barn, where she could hear Alex’s mutterings. “Have they been at the equipment again?”
Alex didn’t respond. He was stood over something. “N – no.”
“What is it?” she asked.
“St – st – stay back.”
She walked towards him.
“STOP!” he roared. She waited, then ignored him. He tried to hold her back, but she pulled away, and peered over his shoulders.
No.
She screamed the same thing. On the ground, beneath a tractor, was a body. The head was caked in blood. The upper body was caked in blood. And on the neck, was a gash, like an open, grinning smile.
Had Emelia Murray just discovered a random body there, she would’ve been terrified. What made everything worse was that the man who lay dead on the floor was none other than her father.
Millie, as per usual, feeling like a walking corpse, stood at the bottom of the stairs. Monday morning was always an absolute bitch, and this one was like no other. Alex would be out and hopefully on the farm, but she was never certain. And James should be down here with his school bag ready, his breakfast eaten and his uniform on. So far they’d managed breakfast and James was currently in the process of tackling uniform.
“James! Hurry up! The morning shifts begin in fifteen minutes!”
Thankfully, midway through her sentence, James flew down the stairs like those shuttles they flew in the outer sector, and dashed in to the living room. Mille poked her head round the door, to see him bundle a pile of school books in to his arms and dump them in his backpack.
“I’m ready!” he grumbled, sick of her nagging. “Did they find them, by the way?”
“Find who, love?”
“The thief.”
Oh. Alex had been going on non-stop about this bloody thief. ‘He’s taken my farm equipment!’ he would say. ‘The platinum hyperdrive in the tracker, gone!’.
'So, he’s not really taken the equipment?' James would say, in a desperate bid to try and seem smart.
'This is not funny,' his father would reply.
It wasn’t funny, really. The thief began taking saws, shovels, anything he could get his hands on. Pointless, really. Millie, the maths whiz she was, with various different prizes to her name, had to incorporate all of that in to the accounts.
Then they heard the scream. It was someone cursing at the top of their lungs. It was Alex. If there was one thing Millie had learned from ten years of marriage, it was that her husband did not scream unless he was pushed over the edge.
“Wait here,” she ordered James. She left the house, and turned the corner to the barn, where she could hear Alex’s mutterings. “Have they been at the equipment again?”
Alex didn’t respond. He was stood over something. “N – no.”
“What is it?” she asked.
“St – st – stay back.”
She walked towards him.
“STOP!” he roared. She waited, then ignored him. He tried to hold her back, but she pulled away, and peered over his shoulders.
No.
She screamed the same thing. On the ground, beneath a tractor, was a body. The head was caked in blood. The upper body was caked in blood. And on the neck, was a gash, like an open, grinning smile.
Had Emelia Murray just discovered a random body there, she would’ve been terrified. What made everything worse was that the man who lay dead on the floor was none other than her father.
The Dying Detective
Episode 3/6
Loved and Lost
Written by Peter Darwin
The tree they’d planted for Jasmine was in the centre of the memorial garden. Helen and Ethan had planted it themselves, a few weeks after the ceremony. It was a crisp, winter’s day when they’d arrived, but it was bright and sunny. It was clear that spring was on its way. The sun had shone, glinting off the marble and quartz of the various different grave stones. It turned the beds a chocolatey colour. Within a few months, those beds would be full of life, when the flowers finally came. It was that day that they’d come to say goodbye to Jasmine. All these years later, Helen sat there again. They’d put a bench down as well. That was where she sat, her back pressed up against a little golden plaque.
“I suppose you know why I’m here,” she muttered quietly to herself. “Whenever I’ve got a story to tell, be it funny or… exciting or dramatic or just plain lovely. Or whenever I just want a chat. That’s what people do, I think. It’s something left over, from what they used to do on Earth. They used to bury people, so I suppose that people would always sit down and talk to them because they wouldn’t be too far away. And it’s become part of us now, hence why I’m sat here talking to a tree.”
Helen glanced behind her. There were lines of gravestones and the beds of flowers had bloomed, covering the landscape in seas of azures and violets and crimsons. And the tree was in flower too. Beautiful pink blossom coated its branches. Occasionally the breeze would knock some off, and send it floating gently down to earth. There was no other noise in the memorial garden, other than the wind whistling through the stones.
“So, where do I begin? As I said, I had a story to tell you. It’s not particularly nice, but nothing that I do ever is. I suppose the reason I’m telling you this one is because it’s something that you have a right to know about.”
***
“Helen!”
Helen jumped at the mention of her name. “Oh, gave me a fright, ma’am,” looking up from her computer to see the DCI standing over her.
“Sorry,” Autumn Rivers made her way around to Helen’s desk and pulled up a chair, sitting down opposite her. Detectives talk quickly when on a case. Usually when they sat down it was because they wanted to talk about something serious.
“What can I do for you?”
“Helen, eco-dome C, farming sector. There’s been a murder.”
Helen nodded.
“Peter and Prada are preoccupied with the black market, scrap metal, I think. Nothing too major, but I want to see these eco-domes.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be with you in just a second.”
***
The eco-domes were not what Autumn had been expecting. Well – they were, on the outside. Autumn and Helen stood next to each other, looking at the huge steel beasts that looked out of place in a sea of glass skyscrapers. There were three of them, all next to each other.
“They’re just… domes,” Autumn said, clearly not very enamoured by them. Helen smiled, knowing what they were about to witness. “So, Helen, you’ve been around for a while –”
Helen chose to ignore that.
“- what are these domes for?”
“A number of years ago there was mass panic about a potential food crisis. The entire continent is a city, after all, so everything has to be shipped in. These domes were built for the purpose of trying to become a little more self-sufficient.”
“Oh. So they’re just giant greenhouses?”
“Something like that.”
Autumn marched up to the lone, metal door, and pressed the intercom. “Hello. This is Detective Chief Inspector Autumn Rivers, regarding a conversation you had with my colleague Superintendent Goodwin, last night. Could you please open up?”
The door beeped, and slid open. Inside was a tiny space – it wasn’t much bigger than the average sized wardrobe.
“Airlocks,” Helen said, clearly registering Autumn’s bemusement.
“Why do you need airlocks?” Autumn stepped inside, and Helen joined her. The door slid shut behind them.
“Brace yourself, ma’am. This could come as a bit of a shock.”
The door in front of them hissed, and suddenly, Autumn felt much better. Sleep didn’t come naturally to her, especially nowadays, but rarely did she feel tired. She’d adapted to the tiredness. But suddenly, she felt what it was like to be refreshed. Her head felt clearer and her entire body felt lighter. Then Autumn realised. It was the air. This was what fresh air tasted like.
“I know,” Helen nodded. Helen always knew, Autumn noted, she always understood. “We grow so used to the air in the city, with all the smog and pollution, that getting a taste of fresh air is just lovely.”
“I haven’t felt so good in ages. By the way – what did you mean, when you said it would come as a bit of a –”
The doors in front of them slid open. Ahead of them were fields. They went on for as far as Autumn could see, with little lakes and streams nestled in between. The sky was blue, with thin wisps of cloud sat on top.
It’s bigger on the inside, Autumn thought. Just like… anyway.
“The beginnings of interdimensional technology, they said. It’s only at a crude level so far.”
Autumn stepped out and turned around. The door stood on its own in the middle of the field. Whoever had done this, it had been executed perfectly. It was like a whole new world, encased within a metal shell. Had Autumn not been explaining this sort of thing to people for a while, she’d be shocked. Autumn glanced up at a signpost, and traced the direction it was pointing with her eyes.
***
They arrived at a small village. Sun kissed stone brick houses, with little walled front gardens filled with flowers and hanging baskets, stood in neat rows ahead of them. In a strange way, it reminded Autumn of the village in the TARDIS. Where the Doctor –
No, she told herself. Up ahead, a mob stood in the middle of the road, with two men who seemed to want to start a boxing match. Their families were trying to hold them back, with very little success.
“Oh for…” Helen murmured. I’ve had enough already. “Right, you, get off him,” she waved a hand at the attacker, who quickly backed away. Quiet as Helen Langham was, she had a strange way of exerting authority.
“I’m DCI Autumn Rivers,” Autumn said. “This is DC Helen Langham. Who’s in charge here?”
A young man responded. He couldn’t have been much beyond his 30s, with a shaved head, and light stubble growing around his mouth. “I am.”
“Bugger off,” a rather ancient looking man replied, waving a cane at the man with the shaved head. He hadn’t been part of the fight, just stood spectating. He must’ve been in his 90s.
“I am!” a third responded. This man was older – 40s at least, wearing a tweed jacket similar to that of the old man.
“Actually, I don’t care,” Autumn said. “Where’s the body?”
“Follow me,” said shave-head-man. “Whoever did it dumped it on my bloody property.”
“You’re a liar!” yelled the 90-year-old. “Go to hell!”
“Won’t be long before you’re there yourself,” shaved-head replied, as he stormed off. Autumn followed him, and Helen turned to speak to the 90-year-old who was still waving the cane quite viciously.
“What’s going on here?” Helen said.
“That buffoon is taking my son’s property!”
“Well – it isn’t quite as simple as that,” said the man in tweed.
“It bloody well is!”
“What’s your name?” Helen asked the old man.
“Mr Dennis Freeman,” he barked.
“Mr Murray, go back to wherever it is you live,” Helen ordered him, pointing a finger down the road. “You’re only complicating things.”
“Fine,” he turned to leave. “But I want my son to have his rightful place.”
Helen looked at the old man and smiled nicely, waiting very patiently for him to turn the corner.
***
The man with the shaved head and the stubble, who Autumn had learned was called Alex, lead her through the network of housing to a small barn beside another house. Lying up against a tractor, that looked surprisingly out of date, was a body. He must’ve been in his 60s, wearing muddied trousers, a tweed jacket and a cap. The traditional farmer look, Autumn noted. Across his neck was a wound, but there was very little blood.
“Who is he, to you?” Autumn peeled on a latex glove and kneeled down beside it.
“My father in law.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault.”
“Who were the two other men? The men you were fighting?”
“My… uncle-in-law and grandfather-in-law, I suppose.”
***
“And you are…?” Helen turned to the man in tweed.
“William Murray. Hello.”
“Please, explain to me what all that commotion was, without throwing a tantrum about whatever your property is.”
“My brother is the murder victim.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“My… nephew-in-law, it would be, has claimed total control over the farm, despite the fact it was my brother’s will for me to still retain some kind of control over the management.”
“Have you checked the will?”
“He’s told me. We made provisions, just in case one of us were to die.”
“What’s the current setup with the ownership?”
“My brother owned half, and half was given to my niece’s husband. The agreement always has been that when my brother died, my niece’s husband would keep his half, but I would still have a role in management. I’ve been told to stay well away.”
“Well, this will be a matter to be sorted out when the will is read, and to be honest, right now it should be the least of your worries.”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Where’s the body?”
***
Autumn knelt, looking at the wound and what possibly could’ve caused it. It looks like someone has just reached in and pulled his throat out…
Very unlikely. She analysed the positioning of the body, looked to see whether there were any other marks she could see prior to the autopsy.
“Alex,” Autumn stood up. “Tools. What sort of tools do you keep here?”
“Anything we can put to use on the farm. Spades, shovels, scythes, hoes –”
“Something sharp. It must be very sharp, and with big blades. And you’d be able to cut from a distance.”
Alex thought. “Loppers, maybe.”
Autumn thought to herself.
“You know? Big, metal scissors.”
“I know what they are… almost claw-like.”
“Yeah.”
“Have you lost any recently?”
“Dunno. Maybe,” he said, clearly not particularly bothered.
“Do you not keep an accurate inventory of all of your equipment?”
“Yep. We’ve had so much stuff stolen that I’ve lost track. It’ll be written down somewhere.”
“Items stolen? Was any of that reported to the police?”
“Don’t think so.”
This idiot is deliberately trying to be unhelpful.
“Why not?” Autumn said, growing increasingly impatient.
“Getting communications out from here is a nightmare. It only seemed worthwhile when we had a serious case like this.”
Autumn peered over her shoulder, where Helen was approaching with the man in tweed.
“Oh, piss off,” Alex told him.
“Oi,” Helen pointed. “Be quiet.”
Alex immediately shut up.
“Helen, come and look at this,” Autumn commanded. Helen walked over and looked at the body. “Thoughts?”
“The man was clearly facing his killer,” Helen murmured. “Lack of blood suggests that it was a very clean cut.”
“Lack of blood, of course.”
“Perhaps farm machinery, some kind of tool, maybe. But it’s somebody who’s experienced with equipment,” Helen made special effort to note. “If they didn’t know the tools, there would be blood everywhere, but there isn’t, it’s surprisingly clean.”
“Well done,” Autumn said, which in hindsight, was a stupid thing to say, considering Helen had probably been working for the force for longer than Autumn had been in existence. “Did you talk to the other two who were arguing?”
“A feud over power,” Helen said.
“Ah,” Autumn nodded, understandingly.
“I told them that they needed to grow up a little and concentrate on getting through this as a family,” Helen emphasised the last few words, glaring at the two men who were still scowling at each other.
“Of course. Looking after Millie and the children,” Alex nodded.
“You talk about my niece as if she’s one of the children,” William muttered.
“What’s that meant to mean?” Alex growled.
“She’s an independent woman. This isn’t the early days of planet Earth, we’re in the capital of the empire,” William retorted.
We’re in the middle of a cold, damp field, Autumn thought.
“Where is this Millie?” Helen turned to leave.
“Inside,” Alex pointed at the house next door. Helen walked briskly away, clearly sick of the situation.
***
“Who was he to you?” Helen asked her.
“He was my father,” Millie said. Her face was ashen. She looked terrified.
“Don’t worry. We’re going to find out what happened here,” Helen placed a hand on hers. She recoiled.
“Sorry,” she said. “Sorry. I’m just – I don’t think I can talk to the police.”
“Don’t worry. I understand.” Helen wasn’t in a rush to question her. It was very unlikely that a daughter would murder her own father. The woman was beside herself, even now. Helen looked around the kitchen. It was a traditional, farmer’s kitchen. Retro, in a way. On the counter, she spotted a frame, with two children.
“Who are they?” Helen asked, in an attempt to make conversation and make Millie less scared of her.
“My kids. James and Ellie.”
“They’re lovely.”
Millie smiled in response. “Do you have children?”
“A son. Ethan. He’s grown up now. Twenty-five.”
“Mine are only eight and two.”
“Those are the good days,” Helen reminisced. “Hold on to them.”
“Everyone says that.”
“Everyone is right. It’s clichéd to say it, but they grow up so quickly.”
Millie had probably heard it all before. Young mums usually had.
“And how’s Alex taken to fatherhood?”
I feel like a bloody health visitor.
At first, Millie didn’t respond.
“Millie?”
“Oh – yeah. Yeah, he’s great. He loves them a lot.”
“Brilliant… anyway. You handle all the finances here, don’t you? And the equipment inventory?”
“Yes.”
“Can I have a quick look? They might be important.”
“Sure.”
***
Helen had spent the next half an hour going through a spreadsheet with all sorts of farming terms she wasn’t quite sure about. She was pretty certain that it was just all over the place as well. Millie’s records weren’t organised. She got the gist of it, though. It was an equipment inventory… with a lot of missing equipment. The murderer wouldn’t have had trouble taking a weapon – nobody would’ve missed it.
“Do you want a cup of something?” Millie asked, as Helen stepped back in to the kitchen.
“No, no, don’t worry about me,” Helen smiled.
“It’s okay. I’m making one.” Millie stood, shaking slightly, trying to pour the contents of the kettle in to the tea pot.
***
Helen and Millie stood outside beside each other, leaning over the fence, with steaming mugs of tea in hand. Beyond the fence Helen saw the fields, stretching out as far as the eye could see. The sun was just setting in the distance, sinking deeply in to an ocean of deep blue and grey and black, with little golden stars floating on top.
“It’s beautiful out here,” Helen suddenly found herself saying.
“It looks it, doesn’t it…” Millie pondered, sipping her tea.
“You don’t get sights like that in the city.”
“But there’s so much else. I can’t even explain it.”
“I understand how you’re feeling. When suddenly, a place you once felt that you loved becomes… tarnished, when someone’s lost.”
“It’s not even that, though. The air, for example –”
“- is clean,” Helen finished off her sentence. “You can feel it when you come in here. This is fresh air.”
“But can’t you taste it? Something… metallic. Just in the back of your throat. Maybe it’s only because I’ve been here forever. The air is lying to us.”
Helen nodded, not completely sure how to respond to such a remark.
“Everything is just wrong. Even the tea – it’s artificial,” Millie poured the remaining contents of her mug all over the grass.
“I thought it tasted funny,” Helen said.
“We’re on the edge, here. This is the very edge of the Empire. The edge of the world. It seems like heaven to everyone who comes here, but it isn’t. People fantasise about coming to the domes, to live out the rest of their days in peace. But I can’t ever find peace here, when all of ‘here’ is just a dream. A dream by the people high up the empire. And we’re just the idiots stuck living it. The other day, Helen, they restricted our communications.”
“Oh…?”
“The empire wants everyone where they can manipulate them. But out here, we’re so far away, we’ve lost touch of their influence. They can’t warp us, so they just try to cut us off. It’s funny – it looks primitive, just like what Earth used to look like, all those years ago. People assume that’s just an effect. But they’re wrong. It is primitive. Day by day, they’re shutting us off, until one day, they decide to shut down the domes, and we don’t even realise. Then they’ll be removed, and some glass building built in their place.”
Helen considered this. “Have you ever left this dome?”
“I wasn’t born here. I moved when I was sixteen, with my mother and my father. My brother stayed outside to go to uni or whatever. I’ve been to see him. Last time was ten years ago.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what it must be like.”
“Everything we have out here, is a lie. It seems peaceful and it seems like I should be content, but I’m not. It’s all a lie.”
They stood in silence.
“OI! MILLIE.”
It was Alex. She stiffened slightly. Her knuckles had whitened, as she gripped on to the fence.
“Anyway. I’d better go and put the kids to bed,” Millie slipped away.
It was then that Autumn Rivers came out to stand beside Helen.
“We’ve got these,” Autumn passed her some photos. They’d only recently been printed. It was several photos of a man – the victim. In the centre of his chest, there was a weird picture. It was like a tattoo.
“Is that a tattoo?” Helen asked.
“No. This is what’s interesting. The victim was branded.”
“With a flower?”
“Yep.”
“I’ll get on the phone to the department, see if we can look for any other murders with victims branded with a flower,” Helen said. She recognised the flower. Jasmine. Your flower. We always had jasmine for you. Jasmine for Jasmine.
“What do you think of the domes?” Helen asked her.
“It’s… different. This is the quietest place I’ve been since I arrived here. Even in quiet rooms in the city, there’s always something going in the background. But listen to that. It’s just silent. So silent to the point where it doesn’t feel real. And to think people dream about retiring here.”
“What do you think?”
“About retiring here?” Autumn thought about that. The idea repulsed her. But something had never crossed her mind before. She’d been condemned to a ‘slow and painful’ death – what if the ‘live-forever’ apple was just a ‘live-for-a-really-long-time-until-I-begin-to-wither-and-die’ apple? Maybe this was where she was ending up. Alone, forever, and bored of living, until I take my last breath. Granny would certainly have pulled a blinder if that was the case.
“No. It’s not for me,” Autumn said simply.
“Understandable. It’s not for everyone.”
“I’m not suited to this world of sitting down and drinking tea.” Helen wondered if some biscuits would change Autumn's mind.
“Millie was telling me, though. She thinks they’re trying to cut this lot out here off from the outside world. She says that they can’t be manipulated anymore, so they see no point.”
“And what do you think?” Autumn asked. Helen didn’t visibly react, but Autumn had grown used to noticing change within the atmosphere of a room. Or a field, in this case. There it is. Autumn knew she’d caught her off guard. Helen Langham wasn’t used to being asked what she thought, or wanted, or anything like that.
“Well – I don’t know. I suppose I’m a product of the system,” she mused.
“Have you been here all your life?”
“You can see the hospital where I was born from the office.”
“Ah.”
“But yes. Every day of my life has been spent in that city. I’m firmly dyed in the wool, as it were.”
“You don’t have to be.”
“My entire life, every single day, has been subjected to this empire. Without it, everything about my life would be different.”
A thought briefly crossed Helen’s mind. Then I wouldn’t have lost you.
***
Helen stood in her kitchen, leaning on the counter, and staring out of the window ahead of her. Her kitchen window had a nice view over the back garden. Garden was a bit of a loose term. It was completely walled in by the rest of the houses, and the grass space itself wasn’t big. Part of it had been dug up and fenced off, after a failed experiment with Ethan to try and grow some flowers and vegetables. The pollution killed them before they forgot to water them. And in the corner was a swing. It looked strange. Normally, a swing gently swings back and forth, the wind just rocking it slightly. But it just sat perfectly still. Ethan used to swing on that seat. You did too.
“Hello!” The door slammed shut, and Helen heard the ceramic pot plant on the dresser by the door wobble, and the commotion as her son tried to stabilise it. Helen stepped away from the window and smiled. It was hard not to smile when Ethan Langham was around. He was one of those people who just made you smile. In the darkest days, he’d always made Helen smile. He stepped in to the kitchen and hugged her, as she silently tried to take in the fact that he was about a foot taller than her. He’d been about a foot taller than her for nigh on ten years.
“How are you?” she asked, stepping away.
“I am ready to spend a lovely evening cooking dinner for my clearly overworked mother.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. I was just going to put some pasta on.”
“Nooo. Hey, we should go out somewhere, at some point. When we find some kind of celebration to honour. Now, you, sit down.”
She was quickly whisked through into the dining room. It was all open-plan – they’d knocked down the walls a few years ago – so as Ethan worked his magic in the kitchen (Helen was dubious, Ethan wasn’t exactly EmperorShef), they continued to chat to each other, in that typical, random way that parents and children do. Just general ramblings about whatever they’d both been up to.
“Visited any exciting murders recently?”
“Nothing I haven’t seen before. Although today, I went to the eco-domes. Well, I went once before, years and years ago. Someone was killed there.” Helen’s thoughts wondered to Millie, and how upset, and how scared, she’d been.
“Jesus…”
“It’s all rural out there. But not… nice rural. Not what it once was. They’ve been left there, basically to die.”
“What’s the point of keeping them there, then?”
“They don’t want to leave. To most of them, it’s home. It’s where they feel safe.”
Helen knew, better than most people, how important it was to feel safe.
“Even when there’s bodies hitting the floor?”
“Yes, I suppose so. Anyway, that’s my day, boring police work as usual. Did you get up to anything exciting?”
“I ended up having my coffee mixed up. I ended up with Kathy’s, I think Kathy might’ve had Ty’s… and there was the lift. I don’t think I… but yeah, it was hilarious… Mum?”
Though they’d had it for ten years, it had only just struck Helen how nice the table top was, and that they –
“Mum. What is it?”
She glanced up, to see Ethan sat opposite her. His fingers wrapped around her hands. Finally, she snapped out of it.
“No – sorry, sorry, no, it doesn’t matter,” Helen blundered. Ethan reached into his pocket for his phone and quickly checked it.
“Oh.”
Helen knew that he’d realised. It wasn’t exactly that the date was forgettable. Helen knew this day, every single year. It was seared onto her. It always came around and it always hurt just as much as it had previously. Ethan knew it too. Sometimes he lost track of the months and the days themselves, but the date itself was stuck with him. It would be stuck with both of them, forever.
“I lost track of the days.”
“Not to worry. Anyway. Ten years ago, now. Let’s just forget it. Have a nice meal.”
Helen eyed the rack of photos balanced up on the mantelpiece. It was a wrought iron frame, with the shapes of flowers and butterflies twisted into the metal. Inside were photos of three people. Helen, Ethan, and…
And you.
They were clamped behind the metal clips, a collection of records stretching right back for twenty-five years. Ethan’s growth, charted in photo form. Twisted around the edge of the frame was a string of flowers – jasmine. Every so often, when the flowers would die, Helen would replace them. The florist knew her by sight. I keep it because it reminds me of you.
***
Helen now sat on the iron bench, looking at the roots of the tree, entwined with the ground. The memorial garden was always silent, but in the night, it was always eerily quiet. Ethan had left a while ago, and Helen had tried to sit down in front of the TV for a nice night in, before it was back in to the thick of it tomorrow morning. It hadn’t worked. Every year, on this exact date, 15th May, Helen always visited. It had become a force of habit, almost an OCD-style ritual. She couldn’t let this day pass without visiting. Sometimes, Helen would come and sit here and speak. When she had a problem, or if she had a story to tell. Even if it was just something that she thought Jasmine Langham would’ve found funny. You would be twenty-seven years old. It is, usually, the unspoken thing, that you will outlive your children. Maybe that was why the pain never left. Losing a child, as clichéd as it sounded, was liking losing a part of you. No, bugger that, losing a child was losing a part of you. You were part of me for nine months. That’s why Helen could never let Jasmine go, because it was the unspoken thing, that Jasmine should’ve been there until the end of Helen – not Helen until the end of Jasmine. Helen should’ve been having her final words with Jasmine, not Jasmine having her final words with Helen. If the world had been good, I still would be talking to you. That’s why I have random conversations with you. Tonight, Helen was not in the mood for talking. She wanted to be quiet. Jasmine would understand that. But that’s what killed you. Talking was the most valuable thing. Talking would’ve saved her life. If you’d been able to talk to someone. If we’d been able to talk to someone. The lives we could’ve saved. Down beside the blossom tree, Helen gently placed a bunch of flowers against the roots. Unfortunately, it was not jasmine. The florist needed to restock, most likely because Helen had bought it all. Helen sat back down, and her mind drifted, slightly. Was it weird? She didn’t care. The reason Helen kept jasmine around the photos was because it reminded her of her daughter. They’d had it at the funeral. Helen often brought it to the memorial. But Jasmine Langham had always reminded Helen of flowers, in a strange way. So bright, and full of life, and so beautiful.
“Oh.”
Helen was not an audible thinker. She’d been trained to keep her thoughts to herself, to only have an opinion when she was asked to have an opinion. But this was an epiphany so shocking, and so likely to be true, and so chilling, that the night air ran through her, and for once in her life, she couldn’t help but think out loud. Helen Langham had always felt safe in the memorial garden, as if she was protected by everyone who was remembered here. But now, Helen felt more vulnerable than she had in years. Her stomach had dropped out from beneath her, and now all she could feel was pure fear within her belly.
***
“Oh, Helen,” Autumn had collared her quickly the next morning, as she made her way in to the office. “No need to worry about the dome case. It’s been sorted.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Helen nodded. “If I might ask, was an arrest made?”
“Yes. Emilia Murray, I think her name was. She came forward.” And as if it were nothing, Autumn just continued straight on.
***
Helen had quickly talked to one of the constables, and had Millie brought in to an interview room. They sat opposite each other, with a recording device in the middle.
“This is Detective Constable Helen Langham, interviewing Emilia Murray on behalf of the eco-dome murders. Interview commencing at 0843 hours.” Helen swiftly recited the entire thing. She wasn’t bothered about the formalities of it, she just wanted to understand what the hell had gone on.
“What happened?”
“I’ve already explained it to some detectives,” Millie replied. She had dark rings around her eyes, the marks of tiredness, but they’d turned red. She’d been crying. She looked tiny, sat there. She wore a tank top, and her arms were bruised. Helen made a mental note to have a go and the custodial sergeant about the treatment of female prisoners.
“Explain it to me,” Helen tried to sound stern, but she wasn’t sure whether she came across as stupid.
“I killed him because I wanted my father’s share of the farm.”
“How did you do it?”
“He was out there late at night. He always was. He was putting some equipment away in the barn, and I found him, and with some loppers, I tore his -,” she was already beginning to stumble. “-his throat out.”
“What did you get out of it?”
“Money.”
“Why do you need money?”
“Doesn’t everyone need money?”
“Millie,” Helen’s voice immediately turned back in to its usual, warm self. “I’m a mum.”
Millie stared at her, a bemused look on her face.
“It means that I’m well aware that when someone does something wrong and they lie about it, the more questions you ask, they soon slip up. My son once broke a vase, he tried to blame it on the cats.”
“I just don’t like going back over the events. I hate myself for what I did. That’s why I can’t think about it.”
“Millie, please. I know you’re lying to me.”
She shrunk back in to her chair. She was a grown woman, with two children, but sat there, sobbing, she looked more like a little girl. She didn’t try and argue with what Helen said.
“The thing is, love, this doesn’t make sense. Because the victim was your father. For you, it makes no impact as to who has the farm. And over the last day, I’ve grown to know you quite well, and I understand that you would never do anything like that. You’re trying to protect someone, and I think I’ve worked out who.”
She looked even more fearful now. She’d realised that Helen had come to the truth.
“Your husband.”
Panic flashed across Millie’s face. A lovely girl she was, but she wasn’t good at hiding her emotions. Helen knew she was right. Despite Helen’s certainty that Alex Murray was the killer, there was still something wrong. Over her many years of policing and parenting, Helen Langham could read faces like books. The look wasn’t just the panic of her cover being blown, it wasn’t just of the guilt of lying. There was fear. Deep, underlying, fear.
For the second time in twenty-four hours, everything seemed to slot together in her head.
***
“Ma’am,” Helen walked over to her DCI, who was sat at her desk, munching away at a biscuit taken from a half-eaten packet. Helen had seen the figures – the department’s expenditure on biscuits had doubled. “Helen,” Autumn smiled. “What did you think?”
“It’s not her.”
“Sorry?”
“Emilia Murray, it’s not her.”
“How do you know? She has the motive, and she was there at the time. And she’s confessed, which usually means that –”
“Ma’am, you don’t understand.”
Autumn was taken aback by this. She was used to being told to shut up and piss off, and she was used to being told that she was wrong. But in all her time since she’d arrived at the capital, never by DC Helen Langham. It’s why Autumn decided to listen.
“Emilia Murray is being domestically abused.”
That was not what Autumn had been expecting. “Did she tell you?”
“She didn’t outright admit it. Victims of domestic abuse never do. But I spotted it today, and I thought something was wrong yesterday.”
Autumn nodded, indicating for Helen to carry on.
“When I mentioned her husband, something changed. It wasn’t just because she knew that I knew that she was lying for him. She was scared. Not just scared of being found out. Completely terrified. The same happened yesterday. Also, yesterday, on the farm, her husband called for her, and she froze. Today, she was wearing a tank top sort of thing, and there were bruises and scars on her arms. Yesterday, she was wearing a fleece indoors. She’d have no other reason to do that, other than if she were trying to hide something. The farm records are a mess – they all think that people have been stealing equipment. She’s just mucked up the inventories because of pressure from her husband. And her story. She knew it perfectly. She didn’t want to know the consequences of what would happen if she slipped up.”
Autumn stared at her in utter awe. “How did you notice all of that?”
“I… er, just picked it up,” Helen muttered.
“Amazing police work, Helen,” Autumn said, still in shock at the level of detail within Helen’s analysis of the situation. “And so – you think it’s her husband?”
“He has the motive – he wanted that farm. He has the skill as well, to use that equipment effectively and without making a mess -If you don’t mind, ma’am, it goes further.”
“Go on.”
“I ran a check on her husband, and – this is where it gets a little odd. He used to be on a university course, and one of his lecturers was a man called Jeremy Shipman.”
“The name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“It, er, it wouldn’t, it was from a case years ago.”
“Right…”
“He was a nasty piece of work. He’s in prison now.”
“But – how do you know the two are linked? Especially if Jeremy Shipman is in prison.”
“It’s about me.”
Autumn was not sure how to respond.
“Jeremy Shipman is my ex-husband.”
“Helen – you’re wonderful. But that still doesn’t justify it all being linked.”
“I only realised last night. But the flower that the victim was branded with – it was jasmine. My daughter’s name.”
“But… you don’t have a daughter.”
Helen realised that she’d have to tell her.
“Okay, I have something to say,” Autumn held her hands up. “I had a look at your file, and it’s wiped. There’s nothing in there from before ten years ago.”
“No. I thought – and Goodwin agreed – that it would be best if it was all removed.”
“What happened?”
Helen took a deep breath in. She realised, as she started to speak, how shaky her voice was. “Ten years ago, yesterday, my daughter killed herself.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yes… well, nothing we can do about it now.” Autumn noticed Helen was desperately trying to brush it under the carpet.
“Start from the beginning,” Autumn placed a hand on her arm.
“Back when I first went to university to do a training course on forensics and researching, I met him. Jeremy Shipman. And, as all young people do, we fell in love. A few years later, after the course was finished, I married him. Everything was okay for a number of years. When I was thirty-three, I had Jasmine. Two years later, I had Ethan – my son. Jeremy became a professor and did lecturing at the university we’d met. It was about ten years after that, that everything began to go wrong. Jeremy Shipman was never a man to be denied. He was powerful. He got what he wanted, whether it was through sheer charm, or corruption. He was one of those men, who would not listen to anyone who told him ‘no’. Then, one day, it was something petty. ‘Can you go and pick up the kids from school?’. ‘Can you walk the dog?’. Something like that, so petty I can’t even remember what it was. And I said no, I’ve been called in. So he slapped me.”
Suddenly, Autumn understood how Helen had managed to pick up on the situation. She knew the signs because she’d witnessed them first hand.
“That was only the beginning, though. It got worse. Kicking, punching, forcing himself on me. All the sorts of violence you can picture, and then violence that was emotional, and... and every kind of abuse you can imagine." It felt strange to hear the word abuse. She felt as if she were part of a documentary, now. "The violence wasn’t even the worst, though. The hardest part of all of that was hiding it from my children. I had black eyes, occasionally. When Jasmine would ask me how, I’d make up some excuse – oh I walked in to a door, or something. Eventually, when Jeremy noticed they were asking questions, he was tactical, and made sure that it wouldn’t be anywhere visible. Because people assume the abusers... they assume that they're drunks, that they're lumbering and dumb, that the only thing going on inside their head is some vague cycle of testosterone, but he wasn't. He was clever, that was the worst part. And so the breaking point came, eventually, when Jasmine was fourteen years old. She found out about everything, which at that point, had been going on for quite a while. And she – she – convinced me to go to the police. So obviously we go, and they have to take it seriously, regardless of what it is, even if they think it’s utter rubbish. And low and behold, Jeremy Shipman, with his friends in high places, gets off the charge. He comes back to live with us, and it continues, worse than ever.”
“Did he ever touch Jasmine?”
“No. Never. He might’ve hated me, but he would never touch his children. Anyway, throughout the next few years, Jasmine becomes distant, as if she’s always somewhere else. It’s only to be expected. I always tried to ask her if she was alright, and that she could talk to me, but she never did. I tried going to the police, over and over and over. Finally, ten years ago, it all ended. Because my daughter killed herself.”
Various thoughts were running through Autumn’s head. ‘Bloody hell’ being one of the most prominent. She placed an arm around the woman. She was the pillar of the department. Without her, this place would’ve crumbled by now. Autumn would’ve crumbled by now.
“We will stop this,” Autumn promised. It was one of the sincerest promises she’d made since she got here. She owed Helen Langham that much.
***
Autumn and Helen were led down through the corridors of the prison. It wasn’t bright and shining like the rest of the architecture constructed by the Empire. Instead, it was just a huge complex of simple, concrete blocks, disguised by a nice, retro-looking, brickwork building. Nobody had questioned the two of them, due to their position as detectives. They just flashed warrant cards, and were taken through the brickwork atrium, and down through a corridor. It didn’t take long for the prison to show its true colours - or lack of them. Everything was grey and dingy. The officer gestured towards a door.
“The prisoner is in there. He’s been handcuffed, and there will be guards outside this door at all times,” the officer explained.
“Thanks,” Autumn acknowledged. “I’ll go first,” she turned to Helen.
“Don’t tell him I’m here.”
“Okay,” Autumn pushed the door, and stepped inside. This was the room she’d visited Lord Dalta. He’d still be here, somewhere. Instead of Lord Dalta, there sat a man in a bad state. His hair was greasy and flowed down to his neck. He was old, his face wrinkled and covered in scars. His arms were behind him, handcuffed to each other. She shut the door, and took a seat opposite him. Jeremy Shipman tapped his left foot repeatedly on the floor.
“Jeremy Shipman.”
“DCI Rivers.”
“You know me?”
“I gett a phone call. How else do you think I organised my little game?”
“You don’t deny it, then?”
Jeremy smiled.
“All I want is for you to explain your ‘little game’ to me. That’s it. Confess. Tell me that you did it. Tell me that Alex Murray is the murderer. Then I will go.”
“Have you ever been imprisoned, Autumn?”
“No.” She saw no point in lying to him. She’d been in something made to mimic a prison, but never this sort of place.
“You’ve already seen what this one is like. On the outside, it’s beautiful, ornate brickwork and marble pillars. Inside? It’s just crumbling concrete. That’s what it’s like for us. Everyone believes that we just lie here rotting. We don’t. If we slip up, then they drag us from our cells and they torture us. Of course – nobody tells the public that. There’d be riots.”
“There wouldn’t be riots for men like you.”
“There would. There’s always someone to sympathise with men like me.”
“Fine.” Autumn slipped a gun from her jacket, and fired at the security camera behind her shoulder. It sparked, and the smouldering shell clattered on to the floor. “When you’ve finished explaining to me, I’ll take the recording myself, and delete the one on the prison system.”
“You’re being nice?”
“You don’t deserve it, but there’s an innocent young woman and two children who deserve our help, and we can’t give it to them. So to save them, yes, I’m being nice.”
“Oh, well. I got what I wanted. Yes. I called young Alex. He murdered him. I knew he’d agree to it. He wanted the other half of that farm that belonged to his father in law, and he knew that it was to be given to his daughter in the will. So, he dies, his wife gets the farm, and effectively, then he owns it all himself. And I got what I wanted.”
“What did you get out of it?”
“I told him that he had to have the killing reported on the correct date, and brand the body with the jasmine. That was it.” Jeremy sat back and smiled.
“To attract the attention of your ex-wife?”
“Yes.”
“All these years in this prison,” Autumn leaned across the table. “All those years of torture. But you still live to manipulate, and to get what you want. It’s men like you who change the world, and not for the better. I hope you’re enjoying prison,” Autumn stood up and left.
“How did it go?”
“The man is a bastard.”
That about sums it up, thought Helen. “Can I…?”
“Go on.”
Helen’s hands were clammy, and she trembled, as she pressed them on to the door handle, and gently pushed it open. Slowly she walked in, feeling as if her legs were about to give way. At the beginning, she only looked at him through the corner of the eye. Even that terrified her. Repulsed her. Filled her with a feeling of utter loathing. This was not the man she’d fallen in love with. She stepped to the chair opposite the table, and still making sure that she didn’t look at him, took a seat. His hair was disgusting. It looked unwashed. He looked unwashed. He’d aged hugely. He looked like an old man. There were scars on his face as well. She glanced at him, and saw him smiling a big, toothy grin.
“They never told me you were here,” he said. The voice shocked her as well. Unlike everything else about him, his voice had remained the same.
“I didn’t want you to know. I didn’t want it to change what you said.”
“Oh, you haven’t changed. Always so very work-orientated. Dedicated. Not letting your personal views get in the way of catching the criminal. DI Helen Langham, one of the best detectives in the department. But now you’re in uniform.”
“I took on less. I went back to being a DC.”
That made him chuckle. Even after what he did, he still mocked her. It wasn’t mocking, though. It was smugness. As if he knew that deep down, he’d won. He’d taken her daughter. Taken her job. Taken everything that her life had been worth living for.
“You can’t look me in the eye,” he said.
“Does that surprise you?”
“No, not really. Go on.”
“What?”
“Look at me.”
“No.”
“No, just – just, go on,” he grinned, turning his body as much as he could, restricted by the handcuffs, to try and look at her. “Look at me. Go on, do it. Look at me.”
“No.”
“Yes, go on, do it for Jezza. Do it for the kids, Jasmine and Eth-”
“SHUT UP!”
He sat back. Even during the years they’d been together, Helen Shipman hadn’t shouted – or Langham, after she had changed her name back. She rarely raised her voice, even when the children were arguing or messing around. He couldn’t deny it, even after everything he’d gone through to plan this little encounter, he hadn’t expected that.
“You do not have the right to talk about them.”
“They’re my children.”
It almost made Helen laugh. “And that’s what it took. It took the death of my daughter. A girl had to die because of you. An innocent, young girl had to die for you to be stopped.”
Jeremy didn’t respond.
“I know you planned this, I know you wanted to speak to me, and I don’t care about what it was about. For once in my life, I will not let you dictate me. Therefore, you don’t get to decide where this conversation goes. This is what I came here to say, and I’m going to say it, whether you like it or not, and you, for once in your life, are not going to deny me, and you will answer my question.”
It took a while for Jeremy to reply. “Okay.”
“Do you regret it?”
“Regret what?”
He can’t even acknowledge it.
“All of it. What you did to me. What you did to our children. But most importantly, that it took a child, my child, your child, in fact, for you to be stopped.”
“Helen.”
Helen looked away. She couldn’t bear to hear him say her name.
“She was my daughter.”
Helen looked back at him, wondering whether that was meant to be some kind of confession, some kind of revelation. It was then that she realised that he couldn’t say it. Whether he regretted it or not, it was not in Jeremy Shipman’s nature to ever admit it. That made her stand up and move to the door.
“Tell Ethan that dad says hi.”
“He changed his name, like me. From Shipman, I mean. Back to Langham. And do you know something? He hasn’t asked about you once.”
“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t think of me.”
“You haven’t been his father for ten years. You’ll just be the man who took his big sister. The man who took my daughter.”
And with that, Helen Langham left.
***
Helen sat by the tree in silence, having finished recounting the story of her confrontation with Jeremy Shipman. By now, night had fallen. Any visitors for other people had long gone.
“In the days that followed, the case was wrapped up. Alex Murray was arrested, but later released with just a caution. Supposedly they couldn’t find enough evidence for murder or domestic abuse. Unfortunately, Jeremy has friends in high places. He always did – that’s why it took so long for him to go in the first place. He’s probably called one of them, to try and get his prodigy of the hook. He’s succeeded. Emilia Murray was released without charge. She was given a police escort to the dome, where she collected all of her possessions, and took her children. She now lives in a safe-house in the city. Though Alex has been released without charge, a restraining order is in place. He can’t go anywhere near them. The farm was taken from him, and the shares given to Emilia. She gave them to her uncle, who now runs the place. I don’t know where Alex is, I think somewhere far on the other side of the continent. And, of course, there was Jeremy himself. I told Ethan. He understood. He didn’t talk about it. I don’t think he will go on trial again, for arranging a murder. He just has to give one of his pals a ring, and they’ll somehow bribe the judge. But nevertheless, he’s still in prison. And that was that.”
Helen ran a hand through her hair. “He couldn’t tell me that he regretted anything. I think he does, deep down. But that’s irrelevant, because he couldn’t say it.”
She sniffed, and tried to bite back the tears. Though Jasmine couldn’t see her, she didn’t want to cry. Parents don’t like crying in front of their children. “But I want you to know. Even after all of these years, Jasmine, you’ll always be with me. Always. I hope you know that I’ll always love you.”
Helen stood up and walked to the blossom tree. It was in full bloom now, along with the rest of the garden. It was a sea of beautiful colours. At the base of the trunk, propped up in the roots, she placed a bouquet of flowers.
“Thank you, Jasmine. Goodnight, my dear.”
“I suppose you know why I’m here,” she muttered quietly to herself. “Whenever I’ve got a story to tell, be it funny or… exciting or dramatic or just plain lovely. Or whenever I just want a chat. That’s what people do, I think. It’s something left over, from what they used to do on Earth. They used to bury people, so I suppose that people would always sit down and talk to them because they wouldn’t be too far away. And it’s become part of us now, hence why I’m sat here talking to a tree.”
Helen glanced behind her. There were lines of gravestones and the beds of flowers had bloomed, covering the landscape in seas of azures and violets and crimsons. And the tree was in flower too. Beautiful pink blossom coated its branches. Occasionally the breeze would knock some off, and send it floating gently down to earth. There was no other noise in the memorial garden, other than the wind whistling through the stones.
“So, where do I begin? As I said, I had a story to tell you. It’s not particularly nice, but nothing that I do ever is. I suppose the reason I’m telling you this one is because it’s something that you have a right to know about.”
***
“Helen!”
Helen jumped at the mention of her name. “Oh, gave me a fright, ma’am,” looking up from her computer to see the DCI standing over her.
“Sorry,” Autumn Rivers made her way around to Helen’s desk and pulled up a chair, sitting down opposite her. Detectives talk quickly when on a case. Usually when they sat down it was because they wanted to talk about something serious.
“What can I do for you?”
“Helen, eco-dome C, farming sector. There’s been a murder.”
Helen nodded.
“Peter and Prada are preoccupied with the black market, scrap metal, I think. Nothing too major, but I want to see these eco-domes.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be with you in just a second.”
***
The eco-domes were not what Autumn had been expecting. Well – they were, on the outside. Autumn and Helen stood next to each other, looking at the huge steel beasts that looked out of place in a sea of glass skyscrapers. There were three of them, all next to each other.
“They’re just… domes,” Autumn said, clearly not very enamoured by them. Helen smiled, knowing what they were about to witness. “So, Helen, you’ve been around for a while –”
Helen chose to ignore that.
“- what are these domes for?”
“A number of years ago there was mass panic about a potential food crisis. The entire continent is a city, after all, so everything has to be shipped in. These domes were built for the purpose of trying to become a little more self-sufficient.”
“Oh. So they’re just giant greenhouses?”
“Something like that.”
Autumn marched up to the lone, metal door, and pressed the intercom. “Hello. This is Detective Chief Inspector Autumn Rivers, regarding a conversation you had with my colleague Superintendent Goodwin, last night. Could you please open up?”
The door beeped, and slid open. Inside was a tiny space – it wasn’t much bigger than the average sized wardrobe.
“Airlocks,” Helen said, clearly registering Autumn’s bemusement.
“Why do you need airlocks?” Autumn stepped inside, and Helen joined her. The door slid shut behind them.
“Brace yourself, ma’am. This could come as a bit of a shock.”
The door in front of them hissed, and suddenly, Autumn felt much better. Sleep didn’t come naturally to her, especially nowadays, but rarely did she feel tired. She’d adapted to the tiredness. But suddenly, she felt what it was like to be refreshed. Her head felt clearer and her entire body felt lighter. Then Autumn realised. It was the air. This was what fresh air tasted like.
“I know,” Helen nodded. Helen always knew, Autumn noted, she always understood. “We grow so used to the air in the city, with all the smog and pollution, that getting a taste of fresh air is just lovely.”
“I haven’t felt so good in ages. By the way – what did you mean, when you said it would come as a bit of a –”
The doors in front of them slid open. Ahead of them were fields. They went on for as far as Autumn could see, with little lakes and streams nestled in between. The sky was blue, with thin wisps of cloud sat on top.
It’s bigger on the inside, Autumn thought. Just like… anyway.
“The beginnings of interdimensional technology, they said. It’s only at a crude level so far.”
Autumn stepped out and turned around. The door stood on its own in the middle of the field. Whoever had done this, it had been executed perfectly. It was like a whole new world, encased within a metal shell. Had Autumn not been explaining this sort of thing to people for a while, she’d be shocked. Autumn glanced up at a signpost, and traced the direction it was pointing with her eyes.
***
They arrived at a small village. Sun kissed stone brick houses, with little walled front gardens filled with flowers and hanging baskets, stood in neat rows ahead of them. In a strange way, it reminded Autumn of the village in the TARDIS. Where the Doctor –
No, she told herself. Up ahead, a mob stood in the middle of the road, with two men who seemed to want to start a boxing match. Their families were trying to hold them back, with very little success.
“Oh for…” Helen murmured. I’ve had enough already. “Right, you, get off him,” she waved a hand at the attacker, who quickly backed away. Quiet as Helen Langham was, she had a strange way of exerting authority.
“I’m DCI Autumn Rivers,” Autumn said. “This is DC Helen Langham. Who’s in charge here?”
A young man responded. He couldn’t have been much beyond his 30s, with a shaved head, and light stubble growing around his mouth. “I am.”
“Bugger off,” a rather ancient looking man replied, waving a cane at the man with the shaved head. He hadn’t been part of the fight, just stood spectating. He must’ve been in his 90s.
“I am!” a third responded. This man was older – 40s at least, wearing a tweed jacket similar to that of the old man.
“Actually, I don’t care,” Autumn said. “Where’s the body?”
“Follow me,” said shave-head-man. “Whoever did it dumped it on my bloody property.”
“You’re a liar!” yelled the 90-year-old. “Go to hell!”
“Won’t be long before you’re there yourself,” shaved-head replied, as he stormed off. Autumn followed him, and Helen turned to speak to the 90-year-old who was still waving the cane quite viciously.
“What’s going on here?” Helen said.
“That buffoon is taking my son’s property!”
“Well – it isn’t quite as simple as that,” said the man in tweed.
“It bloody well is!”
“What’s your name?” Helen asked the old man.
“Mr Dennis Freeman,” he barked.
“Mr Murray, go back to wherever it is you live,” Helen ordered him, pointing a finger down the road. “You’re only complicating things.”
“Fine,” he turned to leave. “But I want my son to have his rightful place.”
Helen looked at the old man and smiled nicely, waiting very patiently for him to turn the corner.
***
The man with the shaved head and the stubble, who Autumn had learned was called Alex, lead her through the network of housing to a small barn beside another house. Lying up against a tractor, that looked surprisingly out of date, was a body. He must’ve been in his 60s, wearing muddied trousers, a tweed jacket and a cap. The traditional farmer look, Autumn noted. Across his neck was a wound, but there was very little blood.
“Who is he, to you?” Autumn peeled on a latex glove and kneeled down beside it.
“My father in law.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault.”
“Who were the two other men? The men you were fighting?”
“My… uncle-in-law and grandfather-in-law, I suppose.”
***
“And you are…?” Helen turned to the man in tweed.
“William Murray. Hello.”
“Please, explain to me what all that commotion was, without throwing a tantrum about whatever your property is.”
“My brother is the murder victim.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“My… nephew-in-law, it would be, has claimed total control over the farm, despite the fact it was my brother’s will for me to still retain some kind of control over the management.”
“Have you checked the will?”
“He’s told me. We made provisions, just in case one of us were to die.”
“What’s the current setup with the ownership?”
“My brother owned half, and half was given to my niece’s husband. The agreement always has been that when my brother died, my niece’s husband would keep his half, but I would still have a role in management. I’ve been told to stay well away.”
“Well, this will be a matter to be sorted out when the will is read, and to be honest, right now it should be the least of your worries.”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Where’s the body?”
***
Autumn knelt, looking at the wound and what possibly could’ve caused it. It looks like someone has just reached in and pulled his throat out…
Very unlikely. She analysed the positioning of the body, looked to see whether there were any other marks she could see prior to the autopsy.
“Alex,” Autumn stood up. “Tools. What sort of tools do you keep here?”
“Anything we can put to use on the farm. Spades, shovels, scythes, hoes –”
“Something sharp. It must be very sharp, and with big blades. And you’d be able to cut from a distance.”
Alex thought. “Loppers, maybe.”
Autumn thought to herself.
“You know? Big, metal scissors.”
“I know what they are… almost claw-like.”
“Yeah.”
“Have you lost any recently?”
“Dunno. Maybe,” he said, clearly not particularly bothered.
“Do you not keep an accurate inventory of all of your equipment?”
“Yep. We’ve had so much stuff stolen that I’ve lost track. It’ll be written down somewhere.”
“Items stolen? Was any of that reported to the police?”
“Don’t think so.”
This idiot is deliberately trying to be unhelpful.
“Why not?” Autumn said, growing increasingly impatient.
“Getting communications out from here is a nightmare. It only seemed worthwhile when we had a serious case like this.”
Autumn peered over her shoulder, where Helen was approaching with the man in tweed.
“Oh, piss off,” Alex told him.
“Oi,” Helen pointed. “Be quiet.”
Alex immediately shut up.
“Helen, come and look at this,” Autumn commanded. Helen walked over and looked at the body. “Thoughts?”
“The man was clearly facing his killer,” Helen murmured. “Lack of blood suggests that it was a very clean cut.”
“Lack of blood, of course.”
“Perhaps farm machinery, some kind of tool, maybe. But it’s somebody who’s experienced with equipment,” Helen made special effort to note. “If they didn’t know the tools, there would be blood everywhere, but there isn’t, it’s surprisingly clean.”
“Well done,” Autumn said, which in hindsight, was a stupid thing to say, considering Helen had probably been working for the force for longer than Autumn had been in existence. “Did you talk to the other two who were arguing?”
“A feud over power,” Helen said.
“Ah,” Autumn nodded, understandingly.
“I told them that they needed to grow up a little and concentrate on getting through this as a family,” Helen emphasised the last few words, glaring at the two men who were still scowling at each other.
“Of course. Looking after Millie and the children,” Alex nodded.
“You talk about my niece as if she’s one of the children,” William muttered.
“What’s that meant to mean?” Alex growled.
“She’s an independent woman. This isn’t the early days of planet Earth, we’re in the capital of the empire,” William retorted.
We’re in the middle of a cold, damp field, Autumn thought.
“Where is this Millie?” Helen turned to leave.
“Inside,” Alex pointed at the house next door. Helen walked briskly away, clearly sick of the situation.
***
“Who was he to you?” Helen asked her.
“He was my father,” Millie said. Her face was ashen. She looked terrified.
“Don’t worry. We’re going to find out what happened here,” Helen placed a hand on hers. She recoiled.
“Sorry,” she said. “Sorry. I’m just – I don’t think I can talk to the police.”
“Don’t worry. I understand.” Helen wasn’t in a rush to question her. It was very unlikely that a daughter would murder her own father. The woman was beside herself, even now. Helen looked around the kitchen. It was a traditional, farmer’s kitchen. Retro, in a way. On the counter, she spotted a frame, with two children.
“Who are they?” Helen asked, in an attempt to make conversation and make Millie less scared of her.
“My kids. James and Ellie.”
“They’re lovely.”
Millie smiled in response. “Do you have children?”
“A son. Ethan. He’s grown up now. Twenty-five.”
“Mine are only eight and two.”
“Those are the good days,” Helen reminisced. “Hold on to them.”
“Everyone says that.”
“Everyone is right. It’s clichéd to say it, but they grow up so quickly.”
Millie had probably heard it all before. Young mums usually had.
“And how’s Alex taken to fatherhood?”
I feel like a bloody health visitor.
At first, Millie didn’t respond.
“Millie?”
“Oh – yeah. Yeah, he’s great. He loves them a lot.”
“Brilliant… anyway. You handle all the finances here, don’t you? And the equipment inventory?”
“Yes.”
“Can I have a quick look? They might be important.”
“Sure.”
***
Helen had spent the next half an hour going through a spreadsheet with all sorts of farming terms she wasn’t quite sure about. She was pretty certain that it was just all over the place as well. Millie’s records weren’t organised. She got the gist of it, though. It was an equipment inventory… with a lot of missing equipment. The murderer wouldn’t have had trouble taking a weapon – nobody would’ve missed it.
“Do you want a cup of something?” Millie asked, as Helen stepped back in to the kitchen.
“No, no, don’t worry about me,” Helen smiled.
“It’s okay. I’m making one.” Millie stood, shaking slightly, trying to pour the contents of the kettle in to the tea pot.
***
Helen and Millie stood outside beside each other, leaning over the fence, with steaming mugs of tea in hand. Beyond the fence Helen saw the fields, stretching out as far as the eye could see. The sun was just setting in the distance, sinking deeply in to an ocean of deep blue and grey and black, with little golden stars floating on top.
“It’s beautiful out here,” Helen suddenly found herself saying.
“It looks it, doesn’t it…” Millie pondered, sipping her tea.
“You don’t get sights like that in the city.”
“But there’s so much else. I can’t even explain it.”
“I understand how you’re feeling. When suddenly, a place you once felt that you loved becomes… tarnished, when someone’s lost.”
“It’s not even that, though. The air, for example –”
“- is clean,” Helen finished off her sentence. “You can feel it when you come in here. This is fresh air.”
“But can’t you taste it? Something… metallic. Just in the back of your throat. Maybe it’s only because I’ve been here forever. The air is lying to us.”
Helen nodded, not completely sure how to respond to such a remark.
“Everything is just wrong. Even the tea – it’s artificial,” Millie poured the remaining contents of her mug all over the grass.
“I thought it tasted funny,” Helen said.
“We’re on the edge, here. This is the very edge of the Empire. The edge of the world. It seems like heaven to everyone who comes here, but it isn’t. People fantasise about coming to the domes, to live out the rest of their days in peace. But I can’t ever find peace here, when all of ‘here’ is just a dream. A dream by the people high up the empire. And we’re just the idiots stuck living it. The other day, Helen, they restricted our communications.”
“Oh…?”
“The empire wants everyone where they can manipulate them. But out here, we’re so far away, we’ve lost touch of their influence. They can’t warp us, so they just try to cut us off. It’s funny – it looks primitive, just like what Earth used to look like, all those years ago. People assume that’s just an effect. But they’re wrong. It is primitive. Day by day, they’re shutting us off, until one day, they decide to shut down the domes, and we don’t even realise. Then they’ll be removed, and some glass building built in their place.”
Helen considered this. “Have you ever left this dome?”
“I wasn’t born here. I moved when I was sixteen, with my mother and my father. My brother stayed outside to go to uni or whatever. I’ve been to see him. Last time was ten years ago.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what it must be like.”
“Everything we have out here, is a lie. It seems peaceful and it seems like I should be content, but I’m not. It’s all a lie.”
They stood in silence.
“OI! MILLIE.”
It was Alex. She stiffened slightly. Her knuckles had whitened, as she gripped on to the fence.
“Anyway. I’d better go and put the kids to bed,” Millie slipped away.
It was then that Autumn Rivers came out to stand beside Helen.
“We’ve got these,” Autumn passed her some photos. They’d only recently been printed. It was several photos of a man – the victim. In the centre of his chest, there was a weird picture. It was like a tattoo.
“Is that a tattoo?” Helen asked.
“No. This is what’s interesting. The victim was branded.”
“With a flower?”
“Yep.”
“I’ll get on the phone to the department, see if we can look for any other murders with victims branded with a flower,” Helen said. She recognised the flower. Jasmine. Your flower. We always had jasmine for you. Jasmine for Jasmine.
“What do you think of the domes?” Helen asked her.
“It’s… different. This is the quietest place I’ve been since I arrived here. Even in quiet rooms in the city, there’s always something going in the background. But listen to that. It’s just silent. So silent to the point where it doesn’t feel real. And to think people dream about retiring here.”
“What do you think?”
“About retiring here?” Autumn thought about that. The idea repulsed her. But something had never crossed her mind before. She’d been condemned to a ‘slow and painful’ death – what if the ‘live-forever’ apple was just a ‘live-for-a-really-long-time-until-I-begin-to-wither-and-die’ apple? Maybe this was where she was ending up. Alone, forever, and bored of living, until I take my last breath. Granny would certainly have pulled a blinder if that was the case.
“No. It’s not for me,” Autumn said simply.
“Understandable. It’s not for everyone.”
“I’m not suited to this world of sitting down and drinking tea.” Helen wondered if some biscuits would change Autumn's mind.
“Millie was telling me, though. She thinks they’re trying to cut this lot out here off from the outside world. She says that they can’t be manipulated anymore, so they see no point.”
“And what do you think?” Autumn asked. Helen didn’t visibly react, but Autumn had grown used to noticing change within the atmosphere of a room. Or a field, in this case. There it is. Autumn knew she’d caught her off guard. Helen Langham wasn’t used to being asked what she thought, or wanted, or anything like that.
“Well – I don’t know. I suppose I’m a product of the system,” she mused.
“Have you been here all your life?”
“You can see the hospital where I was born from the office.”
“Ah.”
“But yes. Every day of my life has been spent in that city. I’m firmly dyed in the wool, as it were.”
“You don’t have to be.”
“My entire life, every single day, has been subjected to this empire. Without it, everything about my life would be different.”
A thought briefly crossed Helen’s mind. Then I wouldn’t have lost you.
***
Helen stood in her kitchen, leaning on the counter, and staring out of the window ahead of her. Her kitchen window had a nice view over the back garden. Garden was a bit of a loose term. It was completely walled in by the rest of the houses, and the grass space itself wasn’t big. Part of it had been dug up and fenced off, after a failed experiment with Ethan to try and grow some flowers and vegetables. The pollution killed them before they forgot to water them. And in the corner was a swing. It looked strange. Normally, a swing gently swings back and forth, the wind just rocking it slightly. But it just sat perfectly still. Ethan used to swing on that seat. You did too.
“Hello!” The door slammed shut, and Helen heard the ceramic pot plant on the dresser by the door wobble, and the commotion as her son tried to stabilise it. Helen stepped away from the window and smiled. It was hard not to smile when Ethan Langham was around. He was one of those people who just made you smile. In the darkest days, he’d always made Helen smile. He stepped in to the kitchen and hugged her, as she silently tried to take in the fact that he was about a foot taller than her. He’d been about a foot taller than her for nigh on ten years.
“How are you?” she asked, stepping away.
“I am ready to spend a lovely evening cooking dinner for my clearly overworked mother.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. I was just going to put some pasta on.”
“Nooo. Hey, we should go out somewhere, at some point. When we find some kind of celebration to honour. Now, you, sit down.”
She was quickly whisked through into the dining room. It was all open-plan – they’d knocked down the walls a few years ago – so as Ethan worked his magic in the kitchen (Helen was dubious, Ethan wasn’t exactly EmperorShef), they continued to chat to each other, in that typical, random way that parents and children do. Just general ramblings about whatever they’d both been up to.
“Visited any exciting murders recently?”
“Nothing I haven’t seen before. Although today, I went to the eco-domes. Well, I went once before, years and years ago. Someone was killed there.” Helen’s thoughts wondered to Millie, and how upset, and how scared, she’d been.
“Jesus…”
“It’s all rural out there. But not… nice rural. Not what it once was. They’ve been left there, basically to die.”
“What’s the point of keeping them there, then?”
“They don’t want to leave. To most of them, it’s home. It’s where they feel safe.”
Helen knew, better than most people, how important it was to feel safe.
“Even when there’s bodies hitting the floor?”
“Yes, I suppose so. Anyway, that’s my day, boring police work as usual. Did you get up to anything exciting?”
“I ended up having my coffee mixed up. I ended up with Kathy’s, I think Kathy might’ve had Ty’s… and there was the lift. I don’t think I… but yeah, it was hilarious… Mum?”
Though they’d had it for ten years, it had only just struck Helen how nice the table top was, and that they –
“Mum. What is it?”
She glanced up, to see Ethan sat opposite her. His fingers wrapped around her hands. Finally, she snapped out of it.
“No – sorry, sorry, no, it doesn’t matter,” Helen blundered. Ethan reached into his pocket for his phone and quickly checked it.
“Oh.”
Helen knew that he’d realised. It wasn’t exactly that the date was forgettable. Helen knew this day, every single year. It was seared onto her. It always came around and it always hurt just as much as it had previously. Ethan knew it too. Sometimes he lost track of the months and the days themselves, but the date itself was stuck with him. It would be stuck with both of them, forever.
“I lost track of the days.”
“Not to worry. Anyway. Ten years ago, now. Let’s just forget it. Have a nice meal.”
Helen eyed the rack of photos balanced up on the mantelpiece. It was a wrought iron frame, with the shapes of flowers and butterflies twisted into the metal. Inside were photos of three people. Helen, Ethan, and…
And you.
They were clamped behind the metal clips, a collection of records stretching right back for twenty-five years. Ethan’s growth, charted in photo form. Twisted around the edge of the frame was a string of flowers – jasmine. Every so often, when the flowers would die, Helen would replace them. The florist knew her by sight. I keep it because it reminds me of you.
***
Helen now sat on the iron bench, looking at the roots of the tree, entwined with the ground. The memorial garden was always silent, but in the night, it was always eerily quiet. Ethan had left a while ago, and Helen had tried to sit down in front of the TV for a nice night in, before it was back in to the thick of it tomorrow morning. It hadn’t worked. Every year, on this exact date, 15th May, Helen always visited. It had become a force of habit, almost an OCD-style ritual. She couldn’t let this day pass without visiting. Sometimes, Helen would come and sit here and speak. When she had a problem, or if she had a story to tell. Even if it was just something that she thought Jasmine Langham would’ve found funny. You would be twenty-seven years old. It is, usually, the unspoken thing, that you will outlive your children. Maybe that was why the pain never left. Losing a child, as clichéd as it sounded, was liking losing a part of you. No, bugger that, losing a child was losing a part of you. You were part of me for nine months. That’s why Helen could never let Jasmine go, because it was the unspoken thing, that Jasmine should’ve been there until the end of Helen – not Helen until the end of Jasmine. Helen should’ve been having her final words with Jasmine, not Jasmine having her final words with Helen. If the world had been good, I still would be talking to you. That’s why I have random conversations with you. Tonight, Helen was not in the mood for talking. She wanted to be quiet. Jasmine would understand that. But that’s what killed you. Talking was the most valuable thing. Talking would’ve saved her life. If you’d been able to talk to someone. If we’d been able to talk to someone. The lives we could’ve saved. Down beside the blossom tree, Helen gently placed a bunch of flowers against the roots. Unfortunately, it was not jasmine. The florist needed to restock, most likely because Helen had bought it all. Helen sat back down, and her mind drifted, slightly. Was it weird? She didn’t care. The reason Helen kept jasmine around the photos was because it reminded her of her daughter. They’d had it at the funeral. Helen often brought it to the memorial. But Jasmine Langham had always reminded Helen of flowers, in a strange way. So bright, and full of life, and so beautiful.
“Oh.”
Helen was not an audible thinker. She’d been trained to keep her thoughts to herself, to only have an opinion when she was asked to have an opinion. But this was an epiphany so shocking, and so likely to be true, and so chilling, that the night air ran through her, and for once in her life, she couldn’t help but think out loud. Helen Langham had always felt safe in the memorial garden, as if she was protected by everyone who was remembered here. But now, Helen felt more vulnerable than she had in years. Her stomach had dropped out from beneath her, and now all she could feel was pure fear within her belly.
***
“Oh, Helen,” Autumn had collared her quickly the next morning, as she made her way in to the office. “No need to worry about the dome case. It’s been sorted.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Helen nodded. “If I might ask, was an arrest made?”
“Yes. Emilia Murray, I think her name was. She came forward.” And as if it were nothing, Autumn just continued straight on.
***
Helen had quickly talked to one of the constables, and had Millie brought in to an interview room. They sat opposite each other, with a recording device in the middle.
“This is Detective Constable Helen Langham, interviewing Emilia Murray on behalf of the eco-dome murders. Interview commencing at 0843 hours.” Helen swiftly recited the entire thing. She wasn’t bothered about the formalities of it, she just wanted to understand what the hell had gone on.
“What happened?”
“I’ve already explained it to some detectives,” Millie replied. She had dark rings around her eyes, the marks of tiredness, but they’d turned red. She’d been crying. She looked tiny, sat there. She wore a tank top, and her arms were bruised. Helen made a mental note to have a go and the custodial sergeant about the treatment of female prisoners.
“Explain it to me,” Helen tried to sound stern, but she wasn’t sure whether she came across as stupid.
“I killed him because I wanted my father’s share of the farm.”
“How did you do it?”
“He was out there late at night. He always was. He was putting some equipment away in the barn, and I found him, and with some loppers, I tore his -,” she was already beginning to stumble. “-his throat out.”
“What did you get out of it?”
“Money.”
“Why do you need money?”
“Doesn’t everyone need money?”
“Millie,” Helen’s voice immediately turned back in to its usual, warm self. “I’m a mum.”
Millie stared at her, a bemused look on her face.
“It means that I’m well aware that when someone does something wrong and they lie about it, the more questions you ask, they soon slip up. My son once broke a vase, he tried to blame it on the cats.”
“I just don’t like going back over the events. I hate myself for what I did. That’s why I can’t think about it.”
“Millie, please. I know you’re lying to me.”
She shrunk back in to her chair. She was a grown woman, with two children, but sat there, sobbing, she looked more like a little girl. She didn’t try and argue with what Helen said.
“The thing is, love, this doesn’t make sense. Because the victim was your father. For you, it makes no impact as to who has the farm. And over the last day, I’ve grown to know you quite well, and I understand that you would never do anything like that. You’re trying to protect someone, and I think I’ve worked out who.”
She looked even more fearful now. She’d realised that Helen had come to the truth.
“Your husband.”
Panic flashed across Millie’s face. A lovely girl she was, but she wasn’t good at hiding her emotions. Helen knew she was right. Despite Helen’s certainty that Alex Murray was the killer, there was still something wrong. Over her many years of policing and parenting, Helen Langham could read faces like books. The look wasn’t just the panic of her cover being blown, it wasn’t just of the guilt of lying. There was fear. Deep, underlying, fear.
For the second time in twenty-four hours, everything seemed to slot together in her head.
***
“Ma’am,” Helen walked over to her DCI, who was sat at her desk, munching away at a biscuit taken from a half-eaten packet. Helen had seen the figures – the department’s expenditure on biscuits had doubled. “Helen,” Autumn smiled. “What did you think?”
“It’s not her.”
“Sorry?”
“Emilia Murray, it’s not her.”
“How do you know? She has the motive, and she was there at the time. And she’s confessed, which usually means that –”
“Ma’am, you don’t understand.”
Autumn was taken aback by this. She was used to being told to shut up and piss off, and she was used to being told that she was wrong. But in all her time since she’d arrived at the capital, never by DC Helen Langham. It’s why Autumn decided to listen.
“Emilia Murray is being domestically abused.”
That was not what Autumn had been expecting. “Did she tell you?”
“She didn’t outright admit it. Victims of domestic abuse never do. But I spotted it today, and I thought something was wrong yesterday.”
Autumn nodded, indicating for Helen to carry on.
“When I mentioned her husband, something changed. It wasn’t just because she knew that I knew that she was lying for him. She was scared. Not just scared of being found out. Completely terrified. The same happened yesterday. Also, yesterday, on the farm, her husband called for her, and she froze. Today, she was wearing a tank top sort of thing, and there were bruises and scars on her arms. Yesterday, she was wearing a fleece indoors. She’d have no other reason to do that, other than if she were trying to hide something. The farm records are a mess – they all think that people have been stealing equipment. She’s just mucked up the inventories because of pressure from her husband. And her story. She knew it perfectly. She didn’t want to know the consequences of what would happen if she slipped up.”
Autumn stared at her in utter awe. “How did you notice all of that?”
“I… er, just picked it up,” Helen muttered.
“Amazing police work, Helen,” Autumn said, still in shock at the level of detail within Helen’s analysis of the situation. “And so – you think it’s her husband?”
“He has the motive – he wanted that farm. He has the skill as well, to use that equipment effectively and without making a mess -If you don’t mind, ma’am, it goes further.”
“Go on.”
“I ran a check on her husband, and – this is where it gets a little odd. He used to be on a university course, and one of his lecturers was a man called Jeremy Shipman.”
“The name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“It, er, it wouldn’t, it was from a case years ago.”
“Right…”
“He was a nasty piece of work. He’s in prison now.”
“But – how do you know the two are linked? Especially if Jeremy Shipman is in prison.”
“It’s about me.”
Autumn was not sure how to respond.
“Jeremy Shipman is my ex-husband.”
“Helen – you’re wonderful. But that still doesn’t justify it all being linked.”
“I only realised last night. But the flower that the victim was branded with – it was jasmine. My daughter’s name.”
“But… you don’t have a daughter.”
Helen realised that she’d have to tell her.
“Okay, I have something to say,” Autumn held her hands up. “I had a look at your file, and it’s wiped. There’s nothing in there from before ten years ago.”
“No. I thought – and Goodwin agreed – that it would be best if it was all removed.”
“What happened?”
Helen took a deep breath in. She realised, as she started to speak, how shaky her voice was. “Ten years ago, yesterday, my daughter killed herself.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yes… well, nothing we can do about it now.” Autumn noticed Helen was desperately trying to brush it under the carpet.
“Start from the beginning,” Autumn placed a hand on her arm.
“Back when I first went to university to do a training course on forensics and researching, I met him. Jeremy Shipman. And, as all young people do, we fell in love. A few years later, after the course was finished, I married him. Everything was okay for a number of years. When I was thirty-three, I had Jasmine. Two years later, I had Ethan – my son. Jeremy became a professor and did lecturing at the university we’d met. It was about ten years after that, that everything began to go wrong. Jeremy Shipman was never a man to be denied. He was powerful. He got what he wanted, whether it was through sheer charm, or corruption. He was one of those men, who would not listen to anyone who told him ‘no’. Then, one day, it was something petty. ‘Can you go and pick up the kids from school?’. ‘Can you walk the dog?’. Something like that, so petty I can’t even remember what it was. And I said no, I’ve been called in. So he slapped me.”
Suddenly, Autumn understood how Helen had managed to pick up on the situation. She knew the signs because she’d witnessed them first hand.
“That was only the beginning, though. It got worse. Kicking, punching, forcing himself on me. All the sorts of violence you can picture, and then violence that was emotional, and... and every kind of abuse you can imagine." It felt strange to hear the word abuse. She felt as if she were part of a documentary, now. "The violence wasn’t even the worst, though. The hardest part of all of that was hiding it from my children. I had black eyes, occasionally. When Jasmine would ask me how, I’d make up some excuse – oh I walked in to a door, or something. Eventually, when Jeremy noticed they were asking questions, he was tactical, and made sure that it wouldn’t be anywhere visible. Because people assume the abusers... they assume that they're drunks, that they're lumbering and dumb, that the only thing going on inside their head is some vague cycle of testosterone, but he wasn't. He was clever, that was the worst part. And so the breaking point came, eventually, when Jasmine was fourteen years old. She found out about everything, which at that point, had been going on for quite a while. And she – she – convinced me to go to the police. So obviously we go, and they have to take it seriously, regardless of what it is, even if they think it’s utter rubbish. And low and behold, Jeremy Shipman, with his friends in high places, gets off the charge. He comes back to live with us, and it continues, worse than ever.”
“Did he ever touch Jasmine?”
“No. Never. He might’ve hated me, but he would never touch his children. Anyway, throughout the next few years, Jasmine becomes distant, as if she’s always somewhere else. It’s only to be expected. I always tried to ask her if she was alright, and that she could talk to me, but she never did. I tried going to the police, over and over and over. Finally, ten years ago, it all ended. Because my daughter killed herself.”
Various thoughts were running through Autumn’s head. ‘Bloody hell’ being one of the most prominent. She placed an arm around the woman. She was the pillar of the department. Without her, this place would’ve crumbled by now. Autumn would’ve crumbled by now.
“We will stop this,” Autumn promised. It was one of the sincerest promises she’d made since she got here. She owed Helen Langham that much.
***
Autumn and Helen were led down through the corridors of the prison. It wasn’t bright and shining like the rest of the architecture constructed by the Empire. Instead, it was just a huge complex of simple, concrete blocks, disguised by a nice, retro-looking, brickwork building. Nobody had questioned the two of them, due to their position as detectives. They just flashed warrant cards, and were taken through the brickwork atrium, and down through a corridor. It didn’t take long for the prison to show its true colours - or lack of them. Everything was grey and dingy. The officer gestured towards a door.
“The prisoner is in there. He’s been handcuffed, and there will be guards outside this door at all times,” the officer explained.
“Thanks,” Autumn acknowledged. “I’ll go first,” she turned to Helen.
“Don’t tell him I’m here.”
“Okay,” Autumn pushed the door, and stepped inside. This was the room she’d visited Lord Dalta. He’d still be here, somewhere. Instead of Lord Dalta, there sat a man in a bad state. His hair was greasy and flowed down to his neck. He was old, his face wrinkled and covered in scars. His arms were behind him, handcuffed to each other. She shut the door, and took a seat opposite him. Jeremy Shipman tapped his left foot repeatedly on the floor.
“Jeremy Shipman.”
“DCI Rivers.”
“You know me?”
“I gett a phone call. How else do you think I organised my little game?”
“You don’t deny it, then?”
Jeremy smiled.
“All I want is for you to explain your ‘little game’ to me. That’s it. Confess. Tell me that you did it. Tell me that Alex Murray is the murderer. Then I will go.”
“Have you ever been imprisoned, Autumn?”
“No.” She saw no point in lying to him. She’d been in something made to mimic a prison, but never this sort of place.
“You’ve already seen what this one is like. On the outside, it’s beautiful, ornate brickwork and marble pillars. Inside? It’s just crumbling concrete. That’s what it’s like for us. Everyone believes that we just lie here rotting. We don’t. If we slip up, then they drag us from our cells and they torture us. Of course – nobody tells the public that. There’d be riots.”
“There wouldn’t be riots for men like you.”
“There would. There’s always someone to sympathise with men like me.”
“Fine.” Autumn slipped a gun from her jacket, and fired at the security camera behind her shoulder. It sparked, and the smouldering shell clattered on to the floor. “When you’ve finished explaining to me, I’ll take the recording myself, and delete the one on the prison system.”
“You’re being nice?”
“You don’t deserve it, but there’s an innocent young woman and two children who deserve our help, and we can’t give it to them. So to save them, yes, I’m being nice.”
“Oh, well. I got what I wanted. Yes. I called young Alex. He murdered him. I knew he’d agree to it. He wanted the other half of that farm that belonged to his father in law, and he knew that it was to be given to his daughter in the will. So, he dies, his wife gets the farm, and effectively, then he owns it all himself. And I got what I wanted.”
“What did you get out of it?”
“I told him that he had to have the killing reported on the correct date, and brand the body with the jasmine. That was it.” Jeremy sat back and smiled.
“To attract the attention of your ex-wife?”
“Yes.”
“All these years in this prison,” Autumn leaned across the table. “All those years of torture. But you still live to manipulate, and to get what you want. It’s men like you who change the world, and not for the better. I hope you’re enjoying prison,” Autumn stood up and left.
“How did it go?”
“The man is a bastard.”
That about sums it up, thought Helen. “Can I…?”
“Go on.”
Helen’s hands were clammy, and she trembled, as she pressed them on to the door handle, and gently pushed it open. Slowly she walked in, feeling as if her legs were about to give way. At the beginning, she only looked at him through the corner of the eye. Even that terrified her. Repulsed her. Filled her with a feeling of utter loathing. This was not the man she’d fallen in love with. She stepped to the chair opposite the table, and still making sure that she didn’t look at him, took a seat. His hair was disgusting. It looked unwashed. He looked unwashed. He’d aged hugely. He looked like an old man. There were scars on his face as well. She glanced at him, and saw him smiling a big, toothy grin.
“They never told me you were here,” he said. The voice shocked her as well. Unlike everything else about him, his voice had remained the same.
“I didn’t want you to know. I didn’t want it to change what you said.”
“Oh, you haven’t changed. Always so very work-orientated. Dedicated. Not letting your personal views get in the way of catching the criminal. DI Helen Langham, one of the best detectives in the department. But now you’re in uniform.”
“I took on less. I went back to being a DC.”
That made him chuckle. Even after what he did, he still mocked her. It wasn’t mocking, though. It was smugness. As if he knew that deep down, he’d won. He’d taken her daughter. Taken her job. Taken everything that her life had been worth living for.
“You can’t look me in the eye,” he said.
“Does that surprise you?”
“No, not really. Go on.”
“What?”
“Look at me.”
“No.”
“No, just – just, go on,” he grinned, turning his body as much as he could, restricted by the handcuffs, to try and look at her. “Look at me. Go on, do it. Look at me.”
“No.”
“Yes, go on, do it for Jezza. Do it for the kids, Jasmine and Eth-”
“SHUT UP!”
He sat back. Even during the years they’d been together, Helen Shipman hadn’t shouted – or Langham, after she had changed her name back. She rarely raised her voice, even when the children were arguing or messing around. He couldn’t deny it, even after everything he’d gone through to plan this little encounter, he hadn’t expected that.
“You do not have the right to talk about them.”
“They’re my children.”
It almost made Helen laugh. “And that’s what it took. It took the death of my daughter. A girl had to die because of you. An innocent, young girl had to die for you to be stopped.”
Jeremy didn’t respond.
“I know you planned this, I know you wanted to speak to me, and I don’t care about what it was about. For once in my life, I will not let you dictate me. Therefore, you don’t get to decide where this conversation goes. This is what I came here to say, and I’m going to say it, whether you like it or not, and you, for once in your life, are not going to deny me, and you will answer my question.”
It took a while for Jeremy to reply. “Okay.”
“Do you regret it?”
“Regret what?”
He can’t even acknowledge it.
“All of it. What you did to me. What you did to our children. But most importantly, that it took a child, my child, your child, in fact, for you to be stopped.”
“Helen.”
Helen looked away. She couldn’t bear to hear him say her name.
“She was my daughter.”
Helen looked back at him, wondering whether that was meant to be some kind of confession, some kind of revelation. It was then that she realised that he couldn’t say it. Whether he regretted it or not, it was not in Jeremy Shipman’s nature to ever admit it. That made her stand up and move to the door.
“Tell Ethan that dad says hi.”
“He changed his name, like me. From Shipman, I mean. Back to Langham. And do you know something? He hasn’t asked about you once.”
“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t think of me.”
“You haven’t been his father for ten years. You’ll just be the man who took his big sister. The man who took my daughter.”
And with that, Helen Langham left.
***
Helen sat by the tree in silence, having finished recounting the story of her confrontation with Jeremy Shipman. By now, night had fallen. Any visitors for other people had long gone.
“In the days that followed, the case was wrapped up. Alex Murray was arrested, but later released with just a caution. Supposedly they couldn’t find enough evidence for murder or domestic abuse. Unfortunately, Jeremy has friends in high places. He always did – that’s why it took so long for him to go in the first place. He’s probably called one of them, to try and get his prodigy of the hook. He’s succeeded. Emilia Murray was released without charge. She was given a police escort to the dome, where she collected all of her possessions, and took her children. She now lives in a safe-house in the city. Though Alex has been released without charge, a restraining order is in place. He can’t go anywhere near them. The farm was taken from him, and the shares given to Emilia. She gave them to her uncle, who now runs the place. I don’t know where Alex is, I think somewhere far on the other side of the continent. And, of course, there was Jeremy himself. I told Ethan. He understood. He didn’t talk about it. I don’t think he will go on trial again, for arranging a murder. He just has to give one of his pals a ring, and they’ll somehow bribe the judge. But nevertheless, he’s still in prison. And that was that.”
Helen ran a hand through her hair. “He couldn’t tell me that he regretted anything. I think he does, deep down. But that’s irrelevant, because he couldn’t say it.”
She sniffed, and tried to bite back the tears. Though Jasmine couldn’t see her, she didn’t want to cry. Parents don’t like crying in front of their children. “But I want you to know. Even after all of these years, Jasmine, you’ll always be with me. Always. I hope you know that I’ll always love you.”
Helen stood up and walked to the blossom tree. It was in full bloom now, along with the rest of the garden. It was a sea of beautiful colours. At the base of the trunk, propped up in the roots, she placed a bouquet of flowers.
“Thank you, Jasmine. Goodnight, my dear.”
Next Time
The Creature from Jekyll Island
An unexpected visit to Prada's house leads to a mission Autumn had never expected when she joined the department. It's time to rob a bank.
An unexpected visit to Prada's house leads to a mission Autumn had never expected when she joined the department. It's time to rob a bank.